


To You.

by therewithasmile



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Oneshot, POV Male Character, Set between me2 and me3, Time Skips, filling the gaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was dead for two years, and he managed to get through it. But her being gone - indefinitely - and knowing she was out there; somehow, that was much worse, especially now that he was like this.</p><p>(A recounting of the time in between Mass Effect 2 and 3, where Garrus Vakarian realizes that loving someone who was absent may possibly the worst feeling yet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To You.

**Author's Note:**

> AO3 has been a really welcoming community, thank you all so much for the warm reception thus far. 
> 
> This was written immediately after I'd finished the trilogy - I have yet to read the novels so some of the info I have or my headcanons are considered retcons at this point, or otherwise completely invalid. 
> 
> Thanks again!

**Day 10.**

_“I’m turning myself in.”_

_“You’re what.”_

_“It’s fine. I’ll be out before you know it.”_

That was unfair, and Shepard had known it then, too. It’d only been a week, maybe a few days more, and he, Garrus Vakarian, was antsy.  _Antsy._ Or whatever this feeling was in his stomach, an uncomfortable churning that he could only exercise by pacing aimlessly back and forth. Even then, he still felt unsettled.

He didn’t really know why he was hanging around in the Citadel. Perhaps it was due to the phantom memories of his C-Sec days – when the Citadel was his home. If he was honest, he knew the true reason: that he had a small hope that  _she’d_ be walking through the doorway. That she’d somehow find a way to track him down, and then she’d announce that she needed his help, again, for some crazy insane mission that he was certain only she could complete. The scary thing is, that exact scenario already happened once.

And she was dead, back then.

There were better odds this time around. He didn’t receive some message in the middle of a Wednesday that his commander had been killed in action. He didn’t spend a few days with a sickening feeling in his stomach that he only  _thought_ he could push from his system. He certainly didn’t have the excuse to run to Omega to start his own vigilante group, as if he could somehow fill the Commander’s shoes.

But he  _did_ have something new this time: feelings. For her. And somehow, that shrieking abyss of absence was worse; death was finite – something he could (probably) get over. Not that he dwelled on the notion of her being dead. Whereas knowing she’s alive should’ve, therefore, been much more comforting, now it only added a sense of strange, twitchy anticipation – so much so that even the slightest rustle at the door had him looking up.

 _Spirits,_ Garrus thought, as he swivelled on his toe and paced once more.

The last time she’d managed to surprise him, at least he had a heads up. Literally. Her hair, her face, her  _eyes_ , narrowed and determined, was enough to mentally prepare himself before she’d entered his stronghold, let alone reach the top of the stairs. Garrus was  _truly_ shocked then, though those moments in between were enough to compose himself. ‘ _Shepard’, -_ he’d been so blasé about it then, too. And yet after that moment, even in the middle of his calibrations, he had half an ear listening beyond the door to the battery, waiting for her familiar footsteps before the inevitable hiss of entry.

Just like now, damn it – and even if she  _did_ magically appear at his doorstep, he’d be marginally prepared. And maybe just a  _little_ surprised.

But she didn’t come. She hasn’t for the past ten days.

The galaxy was incredibly  _boring_ during downtime.

**Day 26.**

The galaxy wasn’t boring – it was  _empty._ Boring would mean there weren’t mercenaries to kick, criminals to apprehend. But being a retired cop and vigilante meant Garrus was effectively doing  _nothing_.

He’d had a lot of time to think. Garrus didn’t like that liberty – it was easier to aim a gun and shoot it. Easier to follow a code or a creed. He liked C-Sec and Omega because it was all laid bare before him: his goal was to apprehend, to prevent more trouble than there already was. He didn’t have to  _think._

How did he know that? Because he’d had a whole damn month to think – about  _that._

It would be just as easy to leap back into things. He could grab a shuttle back to Omega – Archangel could make a surprise comeback. It has been a year, after all. But he was no longer in the somewhat crazy, self-destructive mindset that had fueled that entire undertaking.  _Hah,_ he thought,  _just another thing I’ve been able to recognize with all this damn time._

And even with the uneventful days that rolled by, he refused to think about her. Shepard. Because that  _stupid_ pit was still in the bottom of his stomach, a twisting knot of anticipation-meets-dread-meets-awkwardness, the stupid knot that only grew bigger if he allowed even a fraction of his mind to dwell upon it.

Garrus didn’t  _want_ to think about her. Not for the bundle of nerves in his stomach, not for the dull ache of  _longing_ in his heart.

It was, for the lack of a better word, scary.

Scary – because that little thing inside him as grown. Had been growing, for much longer than a month now. And while perhaps relative silence was  _supposed_ to slow it down – well, if anything, the noise in his chest proved him wrong.

**Day 29.**

Garrus Vakarian was going home.

Only he didn’t know where home  _was_ anymore. Was this crappy, until-recently-was-unattended apartment to be his home? He hadn’t lived in it in several years. Even  _this_ wasn’t how he’d lived while he had use for it. Above all, what he’d once considered  _home_ , albeit not for the space but more for the company, was now docked on Earth.

It was back to Palaven, then.

Part of him thought about leaving a note. Something like ‘ _Gone to visit family. Find my channel’._ But that would be thinking too much. And after thirty or so days, what little silly sliver of hope had all but fizzled and died – yet still hung on, on its last legs, if he were being honest.

He  _did_ fiddle with the message board for longer than he would’ve liked to admit, before he hopped on the shuttle home.

**Day 38.**

_“Hey, Shepard. Hopefully this gets to you, somehow. And that your hearing went well. Don’t expect me to really follow the proceedings though. I avoid those like wildfire. You know that. Even though it’s you. It’s still politics. And I hate politics._

_I’m back on Palaven. For now anyways. Though I haven’t been here in – ages now, it feels like, I guess nothing’s really changed.”_

He paused, the recording device still blinking red in front of him.

But everything  _has_ changed. He was actually  _back_ on Palaven. With his family, who he’d kept at an arm’s length for one reason or another. And his mother was dying. Part of him felt guilty for leaving that part out, but he figured – in the grand scheme of things, maybe it would be easier on Shepard if he left that detail out. For who’s sake, though, he wasn’t sure.

_“I hope they’re treating you well. You **are** the reason why the Reapers aren’t here sooner. So they better not forget that, damn it._

_I’ll talk to you soon.”_

And then, with a flourish, he shut off the device.

The silence settled in like a thick veil of dust. With not even the sound of his voice to fill the void, all he could hear was the quiet pounding from within. Garrus grimaced. Something about the way he sounded, even in his own head, didn’t quite sit right. Talking into a camera, and not her, was not exactly pleasant.

His hand rested on his omnitool – three twists and the vid would be sent to Shepard’s extranet address. Provided she still had access to hers. Or that they weren’t being monitored. Or cut off completely.

Garrus grimaced.

_Maybe later._

**Day 42.**

Fine. He missed her. And not in a mentor, best-friend kind of way.

And it pretty much terrified him.

A whole damn month, and a  _half,_ and these stupid feelings hadn’t left. Hell, when they first started, he hated them even more. Garrus thought that they’d made it pretty clear – it was a fling, and maybe there was more to it than that, but she was  _gone_ , and he was  _here_ , and he had much more to think about than an insubordination that happened because they were literally flying to their deaths.

But being near his mother, being near someone he cared about – when he knew she didn’t have much time left, it only made that stupid churning knot churn even harder. Sure, he’d lived through two years of him thinking she were dead. Shepard  _wasn’t_ this time, and the thought that he couldn’t even see her – just  _see_ her, not hold her or touch her or  _anything –_ was so damn infuriating that it, in all honesty, terrified him.

And there  _were_ other things to think about.

Yet Solana caught him with his omnitool out again, fiddling between the first and second messages he’d recorded for her. Solana always had a knowing look in her eye. She had leaned over and asked who those messages were. Knowing her, she didn’t even have to ask.

If anything, it was Garrus’s cue to shut off his omnitool and remind his sister to go back into the hospital room. And they both did, gladly.

It didn’t stop the fact that Shepard lingered on his mind longer than he’d like to admit.

**Day 51.**

She passed away in relative peace. Surrounded by her family. And to think that, if Shepard hadn’t been incarcerated, he may have missed the whole thing.

Maybe Shepard being on Earth was a good thing. One good thing amongst the many  _annoyingly bad_ things.

And they had a proper funeral – different from what he was used to on the field. He’d held makeshift funerals before, for ten other individuals who he’d personally grown close with. Yet this overwhelming grief was much more primal, much more visceral, than the shock and numbness that came with losing a comrade in the heat of battle.

_“I was asked to speak at her funeral. What could I – I hadn’t been home – of course I spoke. I talked about how she was when she was healthy. I… felt as if I didn’t know what else I could offer. My sister covered the hard stuff – hospital visits, presents. Mom’s supposed getting better before everything went south. Maybe she gave me the easier job. Really didn’t feel like it._

_It’s strange. I really haven’t been home in, what, seven years now? But she – was, still my mother. She’s gone now. Maybe it’s a good thing. She doesn’t have to see everything go to shit, with the Reapers and all that._

_But it’ll be good to see you again. I don’t think I’ll still be on Palaven for mu– well, whenever you get out. Shoot me a message when you do, okay?”_

_… Okay?_

He took a deep breath in.

And that vid joined the others, in his unsent folder.

**Day 58.**

He was only  _halfway_ back to the Citadel when the news hit. And as soon as it did, the terrible feeling in his stomach only tripled. Booking a return shuttle back to Palaven, set to leave as _soon_ as the one he was on landed, was never a very gratifying feeling.

Some people might’ve called him crazy. He was already on the evac route. Maybe it was that bravely heroic (or somewhat suicidal) part of him ready to return. Maybe it was because he could finally  _be there_ for those he cared about.

His sister and his father were still on Palaven.

The Reapers struck that morning.

It was all over the extranet. If anything made the wound worse, Shepard’s name was attached to every headline. Every warning she’d issued, even the audacity to have a screencap of the vid he only remembered too well: when she’d turned herself in, hands up, but her mouth still half-open as she insisted once more that  _the Reapers were coming._

_“Shepard’s Last Words: the Truth?”_

Garrus scoffed and quickly twisted his dial away from  _that_ article. The way they talked about her, it was like she was dead. And he’d already been through that once.

From the corner of his screen, was another flashing icon. And as much as he tried to quell it, a small smattering of hope wormed itself into his emotional landscape. Maybe it was because he was already thinking about her. And he  _knew_ bad things happened when he thought about her.

The message was the summation of that.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he muttered, and he ignored the few heads that turned his way.

**Day 65.**

_“- So I turned right around. Came back. And they asked me to be their Reaper Advisor. I’m the only one who’s faced one of the damn things. Now they find me useful.”_

He wasn’t sure if he was particularly vengeful, and whether that was due to the situation, the military, his family, or the fact that it’s been about two whole months. Two months where, even amidst all the action, he  _still_ had that stupid flutter (which was more like a buzz, in hindsight) in his chest. At this point, Garrus had accepted that it’d probably not leave for a while yet.

_“So I’ve been here. Plenty of opportunities to regain scars, I suppose. Hah. I should remember that for when I get to see her again.”_

_Crap._

He turned off the recording device and sighed. This one didn’t even get the liberty of joining the unsent messages in his terminal. At least he still had another twenty minutes before he was needed back outside on Menae. He turned the device in his hand once more, before pressing the red button, clearing his throat.

“ _Hey, Shepard…”_

**Day 80.**

Whereas once, he didn’t want to think about her – now, she stubbornly wouldn’t leave his mind.

But it wasn’t those tender moments that he held at the forefront of his mind. It was her moments of leadership. Of strength. Of irresistible power as she commanded her ship, her crew, with unflinching confidence. Garrus had tried that once before to moderate success, but it was weird to be commanding a  _battalion._ Not that it didn’t feel bad. Quite the opposite, actually - and though they weren’t necessarily doing much to the Reapers, at least there were more frequent evacuations of Palaven.

Though he hadn’t seen his father or sister yet. But they were smart. They were the first ones he forwarded information to, not that it was much aside from ‘don’t bother with cover, their lasers will probably liquidize whatever you hide behind – taking you with them’. Garrus wished he had some kind of fail-safe solution to the Reapers, but the truth was, he didn’t have one. He likely wouldn’t ever – but that wasn’t why he was appointed the advisor to this sector of the Turian army. Morale, hope; both of which were still somewhat newer concepts to the Turian war effort, but if anything (and as much as the Turians themselves didn’t want to admit), it was just another way to show that, even though she wasn’t there, Shepard had touched many, purposefully or not.

Garrus really wished she were here right now.

His round sank deep into the side of a cannibal, who made a less than sane noise from the recesses of its throat. Strange, black liquid spouted from the wound, gushing out like a leak in a pressurized pipe. There was something distinctly revolting about the sight, and yet he was almost a bit rueful that it didn’t make him wince. If anything should’ve garnered a reaction, the second cannibal that staggered forward should’ve done it. It crouched almost humourously down, jaws open to take a bite –

He made sure the only thing it ate was another bullet, straight in its mouth.

The rest of the Turian army weren’t soft or queasy. After all, them as a species had seen a lot of fighting, a lot of death, in their histories. But it didn’t stop the chill that washed over them, especially the newer generation of Turians where their training didn’t involve a war of some kind. They – and he – may he been considered lucky before, to be brought up in an age of relative peace, but now, amongst the cannibalism, raids, and sheer death, perhaps it would’ve been better if they had at least seen a war or two that  _didn’t_ involve seeing their own kind turned into reaper fodder. Garrus had the C-Sec background, which in itself was at least a step up from those who had been stuck on Palaven instead.

All the more reason he wished  _she_ were here. His peptalks only got so far.

Ah, well, he had to make the best he could. He cocked his rifle once more and aimed through the scope – grimacing.

To think he was bored with his daily going-ons before the fight was brought to his doorstep.

**Day 104.**

He dreamed of her. In it, he could touch her face, brush her hair aside like the precisely three chances he got while they were still  _together_. And even that was a shaky term. In the moments he managed to have alone time, on his cot stationed in their central hub for the war effort, the last thing he wanted to think about was her.  _Them_. It was a terribly fragile thing to let his mind wander to, terribly unfocused and too full of questions – questions he never got to ask, never got to get any closure on.

Then maybe that was why he was thinking about all of it, now. The end of the world was upon him. So of course his mind would flit to the person he held more –  _most –_ dear.

The thought used to scare him. Now, it was strangely comforting. To think of her smile, her skin, her  _eyes_.

He’d long since accepted that he didn’t have the same commanding presence as she did. Maybe that was why Sidonis betrayed him – but regardless, he no longer tried to be the shadow of her, although it was what the Turian army wanted.

No, he was Garrus Vakarian.

And he was in love with Commander Shepard.

He didn’t know when the realization settled in. Was it due to his dream? Or was it before then? And yet a small part of him was relieved, chided him in not recognizing it earlier, but if any, at all, just the thought of her was enough to calm him down. Get him through the day.

Just by looking outside, to his homeworld that was unrecognizable beyond the streaks of red, day-by-day was the only thing  _any_ Turian knew.

**Day 126.**

He winced, one hand flying to his chest. The medigel had already begun its process, he could feel his skin weaving itself back together, flesh and muscle rebinding as a hiss escaped through his teeth.

_“- You know, as much as they’re mindless, Brutes still fucking hurt. Kind of like Wrex.”_

Even the attempt at humour fell flat in his ears. It wasn’t the same when he couldn’t see her smirk of contempt in person; regardless, he surged on, imagining she would be anyways.

_“- but I’ll be fine. Turians are still a bit too proud to call on the help of the Citadel, not that I haven’t been trying to convince them. I mean, they had to ask me to step in, so you’d think they would’ve gone to the next step. Admitting they need help – y’know, outside of their own species.”_

He sighed and shifted, both of which proved to be bad ideas as a dull ache settled from his movement.

_“I hope you’re doing well. I haven’t heard much from Earth – but at this point, I think no news is good news. And take care of yourself, okay?”_

…

“ _I miss you.”_

As much as he gave Turians crap for not admitting they needed help, the words felt strange, foreign,  _heartfelt._ Maybe it was just a Turian thing to not want to admit their weaknesses. Hell, it took coaxing for him to admit that much to her the first time.

But this time, the vulnerability had settled deep into his bones.

Maybe it was the sight before his eyes – Palaven lit ablaze, flashes of red marring the surface of his planet; perhaps the lack of response from his family – forty days in, where all he had left was a stupid shred of dying hope; or maybe it was just not seeing her – he’d gone on for two  _years_  with her being dead, but this was  _so much worse._ Regardless of the cause, if it were one or all three, the fluttering, the nerves, the  _emotion_ that spurred his heart into a jumpy staccato wouldn’t quiet.

It wouldn’t quiet for a long time.

**Day 142.**

His blood ran cold.

The vid was in front of him, but he refused to  _see_.

There it was, Earth, a planet he’d only observed from afar, streaked with the same red that he only needed to lift his eyes to the sky to see. He could make it out, even from the vid: Reapers approaching, the same commanding shape and size as Sovereign. Each creature approached, its claw-like appendages unfurling open – and they were going on a direct approach. Not unlike Palaven.

Earth had military, it had the Alliance, but how prepared were they? For a betraying moment, his mind wondered, feared, more for humans than the Turians. They’d kept the Reapers at bay for nearly two months now, and though they’d taken casualties, there were  _still_ evacs. They were going as strong as they could. But apparently the vid had only been two days old – and to see Earth at a similar state to Palaven, in only 48 hours, his blood was ice.

Shepard was exceptional – but she was still a human.

If anything, not C-Sec, not Saren, not the Collectors, but the war on Menae was enough to tell him that exceptionality did not exclude mortality.

She was still a soft, squishy human – yes, with killer instincts, fantastic ways with a gun, and many more with her mouth, but a human all the same. They were so  _breakable._ She may have biotics, but they were implants. Not like an Asari – and even they had thicker hide. Humans, hit them hard enough, and their necks could snap. Not to mention their limbs, their heads, their fingers, their spines –

He exhaled sharply, making the Private who had the vid open jump.

Suddenly, his mind flew to his omni-tool, where all the vids he recorded – yet never sent – remained stashed in a folder.

Why hadn’t he ever sent them?

He may never have a chance.

Garrus swallowed, shaking his head clear of the thoughts. He knew what she’d say – what she would’ve wanted. He’d spent so long thinking about her being dead, that for some reason, it only brought cold acceptance after his initial shock.

It could’ve been the recklessness taking over again.

As it were, he didn’t know. He never liked thinking things over, anyways.

**Day 183.**

Her lips grazed his scars, scars he’d spent the last month and a bit looking at. Remembering the way her fingers had skimmed across it, how he’d laughed about the marks with her. Scars he never quite grew to resent, for whatever they stood for now, they were a memory of what _they_ were.

And her gentle kiss only brought it all back.

It was so easy to pull her in, to spill the words and the feelings that had built up over the past six months. It was easy to be lost in her gaze, her embrace, easy to laugh at the sudden giddiness that flared in his stomach, to pick her up and whirl her around like he’d seen in the vids. Easy to submit to her all over again, to pretend that the past six months hadn’t happened, that they hadn’t spent it apart, that he hadn’t lost everything – again – without her there.

But he could only smile, take her hand, press it where her mouth had just left. It was all he needed; her softness against his face, her presence, her scent, her  _eyes_.

Spirits, he loved her.

Somehow, that thought ceased to be scary.

Instead, it made him giddy. Made him babble. Made him attempt to cover his extreme elation with his equally rushed humour. The words almost had him cringing internally, but he didn’t stop – not when her eyes lit with amusement, when her eyes told him everything he needed. She still wanted him, she also missed him. She said as much, with her voice somehow serious and stoic compared to his word-spouting.

And so he found himself talking about his romantic skills, or lack-thereof. He honestly didn’t know where he was going with it anymore.

All he knew that her hands were in his, warm – soft. And she was there, a soft smile on her face, her voice still managing to betray her emotions.

Spirits, she was finally there. Maybe one day, he could tell her everything he’d thought about.

But for now, he was content to just hold her hand – and just talk, in the middle of this war; business as usual.


End file.
